


Fake Empire

by l_cloudy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4062883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I want to be queen!” She was laughing and trembling.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The life and times of Lyanna Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**– one: the maid in the castle –**

* * *

_Silvia, do you remember then_  
_that time of your life_  
_when beauty glistened_  
_in your laughing and darting eyes…_

* * *

 Lyanna had been barely four years old when her mother had died, young enough that all she couldn’t remember anything but vague glimpses. She did it often, growing up, shutting her eyes tightly in the dark of her room before sleep, and see hazy impressions of warm eyes and a woman’s voice, low and deep but so soft.

Lyanna remembered light playing on her mother’s pale skin and the way she would bring one hand up to tuck her rebellious locks behind one hair. Every night she fell asleep in her memories and woke up feeling a sort of wistfulness; but it never lasted for long in the light of the day. With the mornings came games to be played and brothers to follow around, and a life far too perfect to wallow in memories; and soon enough came the time when Lyanna’s nightly thoughts turned to exciting adventures and new dreams, instead of stale regrets of the past and all the things that could have been.

One warm spring afternoon Brandon gave her a wooden sword just like the ones he’d practiced with, heavy and long and filled with lead; and perhaps he’d meant it as a joke, but to Lyanna it was the best gift she’d ever received. As she went to hug her brother she found herself thinking, quite clearly, what would her lady mother have said; if she would have liked to see Lyanna learn to fight like the daughters of Bear Island, or wear silk ribbons in her hair like Lord Ryswell’s daughters. But her mother was not there and Brandon was instead, and he wrapped his arms around her the way her mother never did; and that was the last time she consciously thought of Lady Lyarra for years.

She never again wondered what it would have been like, to have a mother see to her scrapped knees and kiss her forehead, how much different her life would have been. Lyanna went out and played with swords instead, lived a boy’s life and dreamt boy’s dreams, and she was quite content with what she had.

And so Lyanna had grown up in Winterfell amidst her horses and her roses, with no other women for company. She was alone at times, but never truly lonely; much loved by her father and brothers and all of his men, and everyone who ever laid eyes on her. It wasn’t hard, to be loved in Winterfell, and Lyanna relished in it, in all the attention and the certainty of her own uniqueness. There was only one lady in the House of Stark, young and beautiful and capricious like some goddess of the East, unruly as a winter storm. They all liked to tell her how _wild_ she was; her father with a stern smile and Huin the stable-hand with an exasperated glare and her brother Eddard with genuine worry.

 _It’s nothing, Ned_ , she told him once, if only to see his concern melt into relief. _I’ll grow it out of it_ , Lyanna promised; and she’d meant it, even. Maester Walys liked to say that it was only the impetuousness of youth that made Lyanna so stubborn, her and Brandon both; their youth and the blood of the First Men running through their veins. Brandon himself always laughed at that, a Southron Maester talking about the First Men like he knew anything about it, and told Lyanna that he was who he was, and would never change.

“And wouldn’t it be a dreadful bore to be like everyone else, sister?”

Brandon never grew out of it until the day he died; and Lyanna didn’t either, until it was too late. She was only a girl still when the war started; and by the time it was over she was a woman and a mother and a survivor, and not so eager to grow up anymore.

As a child, Lyanna had been a lively one, pretty and cheerful and spoiled beyond belief. Her father had no sisters or close female cousins, and no idea what to do with a daughter; but the Lady Lyanna was the closest way into Lord Rickard’s favor, and every man in the North knew that. She had a room full of beautiful gown she wore once and discarded for trousers, and a young filly she had not even bothered to name, preferring one Brandon’s mounts instead. She dreamt a lot, perhaps more so than it was healthy; of mountains and valleys and the sea beyond it all, of all the adventures the world had to offer, and she knew one day they would be _hers_.

Lyanna even confessed as much to Brandon once. It was one cold spring morning during one of Ned’s rare visits, when her oldest brother had decided it was time to introduce Benjen to the delights of Dornish red, and she had promptly followed him. They had all ended up drunk beyond their wits, shouting and exchanging tales, about Catelyn Tully and Ned’s life in the Vale, and somewhere during all this Brandon had begun a game of Confessions. It had been the most fun she’d had in a while, Lyanna decided after, until it had been her turn to talk.

 _What do you want from life_ , Brandon asked at one point, and how could she explain it? Lyanna wanted, she _craved,_ so much; so many things that she didn’t quite know which one she preferred. She had the sort of entitlement that came from stubbornness more than blood, and privilege to back it off; and whenever she imagined her future it was always hazy and vague but on-so-bright, and she had been sure it would be wonderful.

It just simply couldn’t have been otherwise.

And yet that day, that spring day with the Dornish wine and the drunken laughter; that day was the first time Lyanna Stark had her hopes and dreams clash with the knowledge that her life had been mapped from birth, and there was nothing to be done about it. She would be thirteen in less than a fortnight, after all, a woman grown; and Father had told her already of Lord Manderly and Lord Bolton and Ned’s friend Robert Baratheon, handsome Lord Robert with the blue eyes. _He’s already halfway in love with you, Lya_ , Ned had said, and she’d smiled at him but her mouth had felt sour. _No one ever asked me,_ told the mirror in her room, because she couldn’t tell Father, with all the anger a thirteen-year-old girl could muster; the self-righteous wrath of a girl who’d never been denied a thing and finally understood that the world wasn’t quite how she’d willed it.

It was a bitter truth. In all the thirteen years of her life, Lyanna Stark had never learnt how to make the best of a situation; she’d never had to. Daughter of the North and a Stark to the bone, Lyanna knew everything about doing her duty to her House; but still, she hadn’t quite imagined it like this. She dreamed heroic tales and adventures, not the boredom of her lord husband’s castle. Lyanna wanted to lead men instead of an army of servants, and would have gladly bleed on the battlefield; but the dim light of the marriage bed was more than she could take. She would see the South the way her brothers had, on a saddle with steel on her hip, or so Lyanna had always thought, until the day she realized what she wanted did not matter.

No one ever asked Lyanna Stark whether she wanted to marry handsome Lord Robert, because it was expected she would; and she would have fallen in love with dashing Prince Rhaegar in a heartbeat, had things gone differently, had she been given a chance. But destiny should not hinge on choice, and she never had one, not really. Westeros bled for Lyanna, locked in her tower, away from everything; and neither Rhaegar nor everyone else ever wondered what Lyanna Stark wanted. It was not for her to decide.

The days that followed Lyanna’s realization were stiff and endless, painful beyond belief. Her nameday was a tense affair, and felt more like a sentence than a celebration; another nail on the coffin of her childhood. By the time a month had passed, and even her father had noticed that something was wrong, and Lyanna overheard Maester Walys telling Lord Rickard that it was nothing to worry about; a good thing, even, that his rebellious daughter had finally started to exhibit more womanly traits. _Sullenness and tears first_ , Walys said, that fat, Southron _idiot,_ telling Father how all women were moody by their own nature. _Next thing after that,_ the Maester told Lord Rickard, _she’ll want to be married_.

Lyanna had rolled her eyes at that, so much it’d almost hurt _. Not likely_ , she’d thought.

On his next visit home Ned brought Robert Baratheon in tow, and even Lyanna couldn’t manage to be as sour as she would have liked. It was impossible to hate Lord Robert, with his deep laugh and blue eyes, and who took all of Lyanna’s jabs with the same unfaltering smile. He found her wits entertaining, Ned told her; but Robert himself was more a man of actions than thoughts, and it wasn’t beneath her to make fun of that.

On the day Lyanna showed him the gardens, Lord Robert gave her a gracious bow and compared her eyes to the stars, _that would make every man wish for an eternal night_.

“Why, thank you, my Lord,” she told him. “It’s not something I hear often.”

“Men aren’t this courteous in the North,” Lyanna said; and to Brandon, in a whisper. “I get the eyes from Father, everyone says so.” Brandon laughed at that, loud enough that Ned turned to glare at them both; but it was worth it, and Lyanna kept chuckling every time she looked at Robert for the rest of the day.

That night Ned took her aside after supper, to sit her down and tell her how wonderful his friend Robert was, how perfect of a match he would be for her. “You will be good for each other,” he said, eyes open and earnest. “He hates sitting around as much as you do, you know; is the only man I know who could keep up with your follies. And he’s taken quite a shine to you.”

That he had, it was plain to see. Robert’s eyes hadn’t left Lyanna since the moment they’d been introduced to each other, to Ned’s satisfaction and Brandon’s quiet anger.

“We’ll see how many more women he’ll take a shine to when we go South,” Lyanna told him then, and Ned exhaled slowly, and Lyanna knew he understood. She’d heard of Robert’s shortcomings; from people others than Ned, obviously. Her kind brother might just be the only man in Westeros who would frown at the idea of his best friend bedding women all across the Seven Kingdoms, and he would never tell Lyanna but he would never lie to her either. Sweet, kind, loyal Ned. Sweet, kind Ned. It was a thing of men to seek pleasure, and of women to restrain from passion, although Lyanna hadn’t quite decided what to think about that. She’d heard some things from the Lady Maege, and some others from Brandon; but on one thing her thoughts were clear.

She would not be one of many, not even the first among them. She was Lyanna Stark, the Winterfell’s most cherished daughter, descendent of kings, to be admired and treasured and yes, perhaps adored every once in a while, but she would not let herself be put on a pedestal and left to rot, waiting in a cold bed while her husband went out into the night. Robert looked at her like a pretty carving, some golden statue of an eastern goddess, perfect and lonely and unreal.

Still, Robert was fun and charming in his own way, a clear spot of sunshine in the greyness of early spring. He had a boyish sense of humor, low and loud if not that refined, and no qualms about making sure that his jokes were fit for a lady’s ears. Spending time with him was not the chore Lyanna had imagined it would be; Lord Rickard had her show Robert around Winterfell, and they went to the crypts and the Winter Town and outside the walls for long rides.

Brandon scowled when he heard about that, but Lyanna stopped him before he could object. “Do not worry, dear brother,” she said. “Robert would never think to try anything _indecent_ with me, is that right?”

And Robert nodded at that, almost flushing even. “Of course I wouldn’t,” he said; and it was plain that he meant it even, as if Lyanna were some delicate creature to be protected, and he gave her a look that was pure devotion.

For some reason, that annoyed her. “Oh, but Robert is absolutely gallant,” Lyanna continued, talking at Brandon as if Robert weren’t even there, hoping it would bother him as much as it did Lyanna whenever that happened to her. “Why, if you must know, I showed him the training grounds two days ago, and when I asked him to please let me hold his hammer, he didn’t even crack a joke.” She kept her smile firm in place. “If I didn’t know better, and from so many people, then I would think Lord Robert wasn’t interested in women at all.”

And she walked away feeling prouder than she should have; and perhaps a little petty, but not too much.

Robert recovered soon enough, laughing away that uneasy look in his blue eyes, and insisted on helping Lyanna get on the saddle even though they both knew she was a better rider than he was, calling her _milady_ and letting one hand linger a bit around her hip, light and still so thrilling.

Lyanna did not wonder what her mother would have thought of Robert Baratheon.

She didn’t even think she really wanted to know.

He kept throwing those _looks_ at her for the rest of his stay, and it felt – odd, something not of this world. Lust, she would have expected. But _this_ she had not; the way Robert looked at her like a religious experience, an exotic treasure beyond belief. It was _too much_ ; he left her a blushing mess of a little girl, wondering if this was what all the stories were about, and if maybe being a lady in a song would be worth it, in its own way. Not quite a hero’s tale, but it was exciting all the same.

It was two days before they were all to leave for Harrenhall when Ned came to her, once again, to talk about Robert. As much as Lyanna had come to like Robert, she’d started to resent the space he had in Ned’s life, the way he would always been in her life every moment of the day, if only by simple mention. And Ned – why couldn’t he tell Lyanna about some pretty chamber maid in the Vale he’d taken a fancy to? Some new horse, the Lord Whent’s tourney? But instead he talked to Lyanna about Robert, _again_ , how he’d watched them grow closer and now could Lyanna see it, she and Robert were as good of a match as he’d hoped they would be, and Robert already loved her and would treat her well and respect her as much as Ned knew he wanted to.

Lyanna thought it was all very sweet, and went to sleep that night wondering how was it possible to love someone without really knowing them.

“You can’t,” Brandon told her, bluntly, when she asked. Her beloved Brandon, Lyanna’s favorite brother by far, who made her laugh and taught her to hold a sword and always told her the truth, even when it hurt.

“Robert’s crazy with love for the woman he thinks you are,” he continued, even though Lyanna had not asked; and she glared at him and almost told him to stop, but it was too late and the damage was done.

 _I wish he could love me for myself_ , she almost said; but it wasn’t what she wanted, not really.

“I wish I could love him, too” she said instead, with all the stubborn conviction of a young girl who’s been told that love could solve everything. These last few days she’d come to enjoy Robert’s glances and Robert’s smile and Robert’s mere existence, and started to think that maybe those love ballads weren’t all that bad – if only they could come true.

Love, Lyanna learnt later on, could not solve everything, or anything at all; but it was always a nice thing to have.

On the last day before their departure, she showed Robert the glass gardens.

“I wager you don’t have blue roses in the South,” she told him, tasting the way the words felt on her tongue. _You_ , she’d said, _South_ , and wondered for how much longer she would remain a Stark of Winterfell.

“They are my favorite,” she added, and Robert smiled.

“I can see that,” he said, and made to pick one. “They’re beautiful.”

Robert held his rose between thumb and index finger, tightly, mindful of the thorns. Lyanna looked at his hands wondered how they would feel on her body, if they would be as strong and rough and playful as the rest of him.

He put the rose in the pocket of his cloak, still careful, meeting her eyes and smiling at her. “I’ll keep this one,” Robert said. “Bring it home with me.”

 _It will wilt and die before we reach the Neck,_ Lyanna thought, but didn’t say. And so Robert fancied himself a poet in front of a pretty lady, and what harm was there in letting him talk? Lyanna knew her own mind.

She had no intention to die.


	2. Chapter 2

**– the mystery knight, part one –**

* * *

_all I really want_  
_is to be wonderful_

* * *

In the Riverlands they met Lord Hoster, who greeted Rickard like an old friend, and his daughters, red-haired and peach-skinned. There was Lysa, with her rosy cheeks and loud giggles, and Catelyn, a woman already, the future Lady of Winterfell.

Lyanna disliked her immediately.

The Lady Catelyn was taller than Lyanna was, and curvier, and she kept her gaze trailed down as Brandon greeted her, blushing with perfect maidenly modestly. _How demure_. Brandon seemed to like her attitude well enough, though, the way he’d always liked how Ned let him have the last world every single time they fought. Lyanna could imagine it already, Catelyn Tully’s life as Lady Stark. Waiting in her lord’s castle minding her lord’s children and her lord’s affair, always pleasant, always well-attired, never even raising her voice.

 _Family, Duty, Honor_ the Tully words went, but Lyanna herself never had much of the first two, and if her honor as a Stark was to marry whomever her father deemed worthy with no questions, then she didn’t have much use for that, either. Sometimes she almost wished she could be like Catelyn Tully, beautiful and poised and uncomplicated.

But if the nights of her journey were dark and stiff with the weight of reality, Lyanna’s mood was not so bad to spoil her days. It was Spring after all, the air warm with blossoms and sweet with new life, and Lyanna was with the people she loved best in a place that was unlike anything else she’d ever seen.

“Is it always like this in the South?” she asked Ned one morning. They’d been crossing a field that looked completely red with buds, purple cyclamens and scarlet lion’s tears, and the hills in the distance were round and bright green. It was beautiful, and Lyanna had challenged Ned to a race, under Lysa Tully’s mildly scandalized gaze; and now they were completely alone. “Even in the winter?”

The days had been winter for as long as Lyanna could remember, five long years and two of autumn before that, and a summer that had been the coldest since the reign of the second Aegon. Lyanna has seen the wall, proud and endless, the rocky paths of Last Hearth and even the cold depths of the Narrow Sea, once, but the world beyond the Neck looked like a song.

Next to her Ned was smiling, basking in her wonder. “Why little sister,” he said. “And here I was thinking you such an old, cynical soul.”

“Yes, even in the winter,” Ned continued. “At least during the warmest months. It snows the rest of the year, but further South it almost never does. Robert says –”

And there he had to stop, because Lyanna had made her thoughts on her would-be betrothed clear enough – there would be no talk of her future, not now, for all that Ned seemed to want it for her.

“I think you’d like the South,” he offered instead, sweet as always, and Lyanna knew he might even be right, that she would like the South, but not for long – just like Ned this, his enthusiasm wavering the longer he was away from Winterfell. For all that Starks might like the warmth of summer, they were made for the ice of the North.

“Ned?” Lyanna asked, and he turned to look at her.

“What is it?” He must have read something in her voice, if his frown was any indication.

_Does it ever snow in Storm’s End?_

“I’m glad we’re here together.” Lyanna said instead, and Ned smiled.

It should be like that always, Lyanna decided. They all together, talking and riding and listening to some bard’s song every night, always a different song every time. The Riverlanders liked their singers, apparently, and Lord Hoster had brought one along especially, to the delight of his daughters. _Brandon can even bring Catelyn Tully with him, if he likes her that much_ , Lyanna decided. That way, everyone could be happy. Ned could even bring his precious Lord Robert as well; if Ned liked him, then he couldn’t be as bad as Brandon thought.

“You know,” she added. “You should smile more often, Ned. It makes you look more handsome.” Her brother’s pale ears started to go slightly red, but Lyanna wasn’t done. “It’s not fair that Brandon always gets the ladies’ attention, isn’t it? Especially with his betrothed around.”

“It’s a tourney, Ned! You should get some pretty lady’s favor to show off.”

Robert Baratheon must have done Ned some good, because he didn’t blush any more than already had, and did not stammer like he might have done once. “And here I thought I could have had yours, Lyanna,” Ned said instead, and she had to laugh.

“Eddard Stark, are you almost _bantering_?” she said, making an effort to sound like Lord Manderly’s sept, who’d take one long look at Lyanna and shook her head in silent dismay. “Why, I _never_.”

Ned, like the good-natured fool he was, didn’t say a word. He simply helped her back in the saddle – _like a proper knight, dear ser_ , Lyanna said – and together they went back.

That night the inn where they stopped to sleep was a massive building, three stories of dark wood and Myrish glasses in the best rooms’ windows. It was also completely full, to the point where they had to share – two rooms for the men, one for the women, with Catelyn and Lysa’s maid, Dalia, sleeping in a cot on the floor.

“This means we’re close to Harrenhall,” Lyanna heard Lysa tell the girl, and had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. _Really, my lady?_ She wanted to say _. I hadn’t noticed_.

Lyanna contented herself with nodding instead, shifting around in her small bed, testing the softness of the mattress under her. It wasn’t as good as her own bed in Winterfell, but then again she doubted any bed in a common inn would be. The moment Lyanna had been moved from the nursery she’d shared with Benjen to her new room – a _woman_ ’s room – she had instead that everything should be exactly as she wanted, from the pretty embroidered curtains to the featherbed. At age ten, Lyanna had truly been a terrible child – and she was a terrible woman now, Brandon was fond of saying – the tyrant of her own little kingdom, and her father had gone along with whatever she’d asked, the way he always did.

Always, except this one time, Lyanna thought, hips bouncing on the bed. What would that little girl think of her life now, five years later, with the best bed in all of Winterfell and an impending betrothal.

“What are you doing?”

It was Lysa Tully again; Lyanna turned towards her with a biting retort on her tongue, ready to forget all of her lady’s courtesies, but the Tully girl was biting her lip and looking at her with sympathy on her face.

“Are you nervous?” Lysa asked, her big blue eyes filled with misplaced understanding. What did Lysa Tully knew, Lyanna wondered, of being in her place. Little Lysa was Southron to the bone and Southron would remain, some pretty young thing to smile softly at a lord’s arm and be glad of her lot in life. Lysa would love the idea of marrying Robert Baratheon, almost as much as Robert himself loved the idea of becoming Ned’s brother.

But her lack of an answer didn’t seem to faze the other girl. “Is this your first tourney?” Lysa added, and _oh_ , _this_ was what she thought it was. Silly Lysa. Silly, marvelous Lysa, who gave Lyanna a bright smile, like they were friends.

“It’s my first tourney as well,” she admitted. “I’ve never gone before, Father said I was too young, except he let Cat go to her first tournament when she was two-and-ten… but she was already betrothed, of course,” Lysa added the last part with a giggle. “You should know, obviously.”

“What does your brother think of Cat?”

Lyanna blinked. “My brother Brandon?”

“Yes, of course Brandon, silly,” Lysa said. “Does he like Catelyn? Oh, but he must,” her voice had turned sour. “ _Everyone_ likes Catelyn.”

“Of course he likes Catelyn,” Lyanna was quickly to reassure, even if somehow it didn’t seem to have much effect on Lysa’s dark face. “He’s always saying how much he can’t wait to show her Winterfell. And he told me he likes her.”

That was probably where Catelyn was now, taking another long walk with Brandon to _talk about the North_ under Dalia’s watchful eyes, which had been going on for a few days and always ended up being the cause of Brandon’s forced smiles and Robert’s bawdy jokes.

“Well, that’s good,” Lysa nodded. “It’s a good thing when your betrothed likes you. Septa Farsani says –”

“I don’t have a septa,” Lyanna found herself saying, if only to see what would happen. Catelyn would smile pleasantly, and think her mad. Lysa instead…

Lysa smiled ferociously. “Well, I _wish_ I didn’t,” she said. “Septa Farsani says _stupid_ things.”

If Brandon had been there, he would have laughed and asked Lysa what else did she expect from a woman of the Faith. Lyanna gave Lysa a look. “Stupid things?”

“Well,” Lysa began, shifting on her own mattress. “She tells me I’m not modest enough. That I speak too loud. That Father was right when he argued with Uncle Brynden, even if everyone knows that’s not true. And…” Lysa paused “she says that all ladies worth something must marry knights. That’s not true.”

“Of course it’s not true.” Lyanna wondered if Lady Catelyn agreed, and if she’d told Brandon as much. Somehow she doubted it. “My brother is not a knight, you know.”

“Really?” Lysa asked, wide-eyed. “Can I tell Septa Farsani that?”

“Really,” she nodded. “Lord Arryn knighted Ned when he did Robert, but Brandon was fostered in the North. We don’t have many knights there.”

“Oh, I knew that,” the other girl said, nodding to herself. “I read it in a book.”

The way Lysa said _read it in a book_ made it sound as if she was talking about something exotic and strange, in a way that made life in the North sound alike to myth like Old Valyria or the magic of Asshai-by-the-shadows. Lyanna had to laugh at that, and Lysa’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s nothing wrong with reading,” she said, almost indignant. “Petyr always says knowledge is important. And… I like it.”

Lyanna, who’d never had the patience for books, made an effort to look understanding at Lysa’s words. “And just _who_ is Petyr?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away; and Lysa’s eyes brightened.

“Well…” the other girl began; and Lyanna started to think that maybe, just maybe, the Tullys weren’t _that_ bad after all.

By the time Catelyn made it back to their room, alone and smiling, Lyanna had learned more about handsome, clever Petyr Baelish than she’d ever wanted to know, but couldn’t quite bring herself to dismiss Lysa like she would have only one day before. She wondered idly if this was what proper ladies did, the ones who’d grown up with female companions and music lessons instead of brothers and swords – lose sleep and gossip about boys instead. It was such a _Southron_ thing to do, almost dangerously decadent, frivolous and fascinating.

But Lysa stopped talking the instant they heard Lady Catelyn’s footsteps behind the door, and when she asked what they’d been talking about – blinking in perfectly ladylike wonder at the novelty of her sister and goodsister-to-be smiling together like friends – Lysa was quick to tell Catelyn to take a seat and redirect the conversation away from Petyr Baelish, and on to Catelyn’s own betrothed.

“Did you have a good time?” Lysa asked her sister, and yes, there was the faint hint of a blush on Catelyn’s high cheekbones. “Oh, but you must have, I don’t see Dalia anywhere near you.” There was a sort of vicious cheerfulness in Lysa’s words. “What would father think of darling Cat wandering off in the dark with a _man_?”

Catelyn’s cheeks reddened even more, and Lyanna scoffed. “My brother is hardly a _man_ ,” she laughed. “You’d better not call Brandon that where he can hear. It’d make his head even bigger.”

“It could never be bigger than Lord Robert’s,” Lysa retorted, and Catelyn turned towards her sister with a stern glare.

“ _Lysa_!” Catelyn said, doing her best to look apologetic in Lyanna’s direction, but not quite managing it. The way Lysa had put it, the Tully girls found Robert Baratheon incredibly handsome and incredibly full of himself. Lyanna was inclined to agree, but then again, Brandon was every bit as self-centered as Robert if not more, and Lyanna herself not behind. It made her wonder about Catelyn Tully, how could she look at Brandon and see perfection where there were flaws; what was about love that made everyone so blind.

She wondered if that was what Robert saw when he looked at her.

Lyanna blinked and came back to herself to see Lysa nervously biting at her lip again. It took her a moment to realize that the girl thought her offended.

“Oh, Lord Robert is quite in love with himself,” Lyanna said with a smile, making an airy gesture with her hand. “It’s part of his charm. And he’s more than got reasons for it.”

Robert _was_ handsome and charming, after all; it seemed like it would be easy to fall in love with him, at least for a little while.

“And don’t bite your lip, Lysa,” Catelyn told her sister, moving around on the bed so that her gown floded perfectly around her ankles. “It’s not ladylike.”

Lysa rolled her eyes but her face spoke of a familiar annoyance, and suddenly Lyanna felt like an intruder in a life that was not hers.

“So, Catelyn,” she said instead. “What exactly _were_ you doing with my brother?” _Walking_ in the dark didn’t sound much like Brandon. Even if lady Barbrey had been inclined to keep their dalliance discreet – and she really had not – Lyanna knew her brother well enough to understand what his intentions with a woman were.

Lady Catelyn, it seemed, remained blissfully unaware. “We were talking of our childhoods,” she said. “He asked me about Riverrun and my brother Edmure, and told me how much he loves riding in the Rills in the North –”

As if _Lyanna_ didn’t know. She was the one who spent the most time with Brandon on his outings, even more than Barbrey, thanks the gods. Privately, Lyanna wondered if dainty Catelyn would ever consider wearing men’s breeches and straddle the saddle like a true lady of Winterfell.

She probably would. She was _that_ infatuated; it was almost sickening, more Southron honey-sweetness in the way her blue eyes had gone soft.

“But did you _kiss_?” Lyanna asked, if only to see Catelyn stutter and head Lysa’s high-pitched giggle.

“Oh, you did,” Lysa said. “You _so_ did, Cat, were you ever going to tell me?”

“It wasn’t for _long_ ,” Catelyn said, words stumbling out of her mouth in a feeble attempt at diverting her sister’s attention. Her eyes were fixed on the wooden floor between the beds. “It was… Brandon sent Dalia away at the end. Just for a moment.”

“But did you _like_ it?” Lysa continued, excited. “Was it anything like that time in the godswood with– ?” Lysa stopped suddenly to glance at Lyanna, just for a heartbeat, then kept going as if nothing had happened, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Did he use his _tongue_?”

“Lysa!”

“I bet he did,” Lyanna said, after long enough that it looked like Catelyn wasn’t going to say anything. “Did he take out his sword as well?”

Catelyn frowned for a moment. “Why would he…” she began, before flushing at Lyanna’s smile.

“Lyanna Stark!” Catelyn said, using the same reprimanding voice she’d used with Lysa. “You terrible, _wicked_ girl.”

Lyanna’s smiles went wider, laying down on the mattress. Around her, Lysa kept asking why exactly Lord Brandon would bring his sword to a walk with his lady, and hadn’t Catelyn seen it already anyway? It was almost like teasing Benjen – almost but not quite, the way this bed would never be as good as the one at home.

But, for now, she could settle.

It was two days later when they finally reached Harrenhall, huge and dark and surrounded by a sea of people – ladies and singers, knights and merchants and smallfolk, all drawn to the castle like a moth to a flame. They arrived in the late evening, and from afar the camp looked just like flowers in a field, with the bright colors of the lord’s pavilions surrounded by the duller ones of the smaller tents. Lyanna wondered how it must look from above, the stone monstrosity of Harrenhal and all the splatters of life around it.

Lord Rickard’s pavilion was a deep sapphire blue, and inside the thick wall of cloth were still light enough that Lyanna could whisper secrets with Benjen late at night, fall asleep lulled by the sound of a thousand voices.

Then the morning came, pale and bright, and Lyanna had never seen anything more beautiful. There were people everywhere, all dressed in their finest clothes, and somehow everyone around her seemed to be young or comely, or both. The sky was a deep blue, naturally, barely a cloud in sight, and the air carried the smell of roasted meat and the sound of distant flutes.

When Lyanna had been five years old she’d used to dream of places like these, of living a walking dream where everything was fresh and lovely and everyone smiled happily. Her mother had just died then, and Father’s sorrow was frightening to look at; and Lyanna somehow found herself thinking wistfully of the South, where the land was gentler and life easier, as Old Nan liked to say. Somehow Lyanna Stark, aged five, got into her head that the best thing to do with her life should be marry some Southron lord who’d whisk her away, some blonde lord of the West or an handsome Tyrell with a rose on his shield.

Never had Lyanna dreamed about a fiery lord of the storm, or imagined that her childhood fantasy would come true the moment she least wanted it to.

 _Shows what I know,_ she thought sullenly. Then went to look for Brandon in whatever watering hole he’d found himself in.

“Lya!” It was Ben, following in her footstep as usual, trying to slow her down. “Lya, wait.”

She did, barely, just enough for her brother to catch her. “Lya, what’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You just started running like a madwoman.”

“I just want to find Brandon and go back to Father,” Lyanna said. “I don’t like it here. There’s too many people.”

Benjen scoffed. “What, you can’t stand not being the center of everyone’s attention for once?” He was smiling as he said it, though, and Lyanna flashed him a brilliant smile in return.

“That’s it,” she gave him a solemn nod. “You know me so well, dear brother. I cannot live without attention. I would wither, and die.”

“More like, you cannot live without being dramatic,” Benjen said, and Lyanna nodded again.

“That, too.”

They were almost to the wall of the castle, and Lyanna felt herself shiver. They were so dark and imposing, charred and heavy with the weight of centuries, and wasn’t that a strange thought – Winterfell was thirty times more ancient than this ugly fortress, and yet somehow _lighter_ , beautiful in its welcoming familiarity.

Harrenhall was a ghost story.

“We’re not going in,” she told Benjen. Surely, Brandon _could_ have gone into the castle – Lord Hoster and his daughters had been hosted inside, courtesy of their Whent relations, and Brandon might be visiting – but it was still _Brandon_ , at the greatest tournament the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Lyanna doubted he’d go willingly look for Catelyn when there was so much more fun to be had in the camps.

“I heard there’s a magician from the East, doing tricks,” Benjen said, nodding. “Maybe Brandon went to see it. It sounds like something he’d like.”

Lyanna laughed, raising her eyebrows in Benjen’s direction. “ _Brandon_ would like it, eh?” But Lyanna liked the idea of a magician from the East even more than Benjen did, so they went.

“Do you think he’ll do tricks with fire?” Benjen asked as they walked. “I heard in Volantis they do fire magic at every street corner, they think it’ll make their gods happy, and –”

A horn started to sound, then another. Soon more joined in, the guards on the walls of Harrenhall first, then others, trumpeters from this or that other side of the camp, until the sound was coming from everywhere at once, loud and grand and blazing.

And then, among the blasts, a voice.

“The king!” someone cried out, impossibly loud in the sudden silence. “The king has come!”

“The Silver Prince!” a woman's voice this time, high and clear. “Prince Rhaegar!”

A dozen more voices joined in, then a hundred; and then everyone else, calling out for the king and the prince and the Sword of the Morning, and Lyanna found herself clutching Benjen’s hands tightly and looking in the same direction as everyone else, squinting against the dust and the morning light, trying to see –

“Here they are,” she told Benjen, pointing her hand. “See?”

And there it was, in the distance, the red-and-black of silken banners flying high in the sun.

The king had arrived to Harrenhall.


	3. Chapter 3

**– the mystery knight, part two –**

* * *

_you can fall for chains of silver_  
_you can fall for chains of gold_

* * *

By the time they made it back, the morning was all but over. They never found Brandon - the camp had gone in a frenzy at the news of the King’s arrival, people rushing everywhere and whispering in excitement, and it was nigh on impossible to find anyone in such a mess.

Lyanna went looking for the magician instead, Benjen telling her to _hurry up, Lya, please_ , and saw the man doing his tricks with knives and flames and colorful bird appearing from thin air upon his hands. The magician’s name was Vhamir, or so he said, his accent thick and heavy as he called on Lyanna with a gold-toothed smile, and told her to close her eyes as he took off a handkerchief from Lyanna’s ear.

“A pretty gift for a pretty lady,” Vhamir said, handing it to her with a flowery gesture as the crowd around them applauded. Lyanna, who’ve never liked to be called _pretty_ when she could’ve been called _beautiful_ instead, treaded one hand on the cloth gingerly, trying to figure out what it was. The handkerchief was pale grey and scarlet red, soft at the touch, though not smooth enough to be silk and not heavy enough to be made of wool.

“It is cotton, my lady,” the magician said, after everyone else had gone. “It is a cloth from the East, it’s made in Qohor and Norvos, from a flower that –”

“I _know_ what cotton is,” Lyanna said, cheeks reddening. _He must think me an uncultured savage_ , she thought furiously. Not even a day in Harrenhall, and she was already looking like an ignorant. “I’ve just never seen it used like _this_ before. We have tapestries…”

“But of course, lady,” Vhamir gave her a jovial smile. “I assume you are pleased with your gift?”

“Yes,” Lyanna said, grasping the handkerchief instinctively, bringing her closed hand to her chest. “Much so. Thank you. It’s very beautiful.”

The magician’s smile only widened. “You like Eastern trinkets, aren’t you not, m’lady?” he stated more than asking, not even giving Lyanna time to answer. “Then you will be most pleased to visit the caravan in the south quarter, where the Lion’s banners are. You will find many of my countrymen there. And women.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna said again, not quite knowing what to make of that. She hurried to Benjen, who was waiting in a corner, licking his fingers clean of something that smelled like honey.

“You are _terrible_ , Lya,” he said. “You made me wait on the way here, and wait to leave. The South must be making you slower.”

“Don’t sulk,” Lyanna told Benjen. “It’s not becoming.”

Benjen rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, and followed her in silence. They stopped thrice more on the way back, once for some more food, spicy stuffed peppers from Dorne that made Lyanna’s eyes water, and once more at an armorer’s tent, a tall thin man who claimed to have learned his craft in Qohor. Lyanna had a sword commissioned, a slender thing that was ostensibly for Benjen, but the armorer seemed to see right through her and gave a boisterous laugh as he told Lyanna to come back in two days, and take one of his practice swords in the meanwhile.

“What makes you think I haven’t one already?” Lyanna asked the man, surveying the pitifully blunt blade in her hand, shocked at the man’s gall. _And here I thought Southron were supposed to be obsequious._ If she’d been a boy, no armorer would have implied she needed a tourney sword to _practice_.

“Take it all the same, m’lady,” the armorer said, still laughing. “Swing it around, get used to the weight. I won’t have it said that one of Tobho Mott’s blades hurt such a pretty lady.”

Lyanna scoffed, but took the sword all the same.

They left the main camp after that, crowds having quickly lost their appeal to Lyanna – too many people, too many noises, the sticky warmth of bodies pressed close together – and it wasn’t long before she and Benjen found themselves in a lonely part of the grounds, surrounded by green bushes and trees covered in blossoms.

“Like a shortcut,” Lyanna promised Benjen. “Wait and see. We are meant to go East, so we should just –”

“Wait,” Benjen said, cutting her off, and Lyanna frowned because Benjen _never_ interrupted her. “Don’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“That noise,” Benjen said, pointing to somewhere behind a close patch of trees. “There’s someone in there.”

He was right. There was _someone_ behind the trees – several people, judging by the coarse japes and loud laughs coming from that direction; and another sound, soft whimpers and a low wail. It wasn’t unlike what a suffering animal might sound like, Lyanna thought, some poor tormented beast; or even –

She looked at Benjen, her sweetest, innocent brother, who was staring back at her with nothing more than curiosity on his face. Still. She was a Stark of Winterfell. She would not be _scared_.

“Let’s go see,” Lyanna told Benjen. “Perhaps someone there needs our help.”

She ran, Benjen fast on her heels, towards the cruel voices and low whines, and it was almost a relief to Lyanna when she arrived to see three young squires crowded not around a girl, but a young man who looked completely odd and strangely familiar at the same time. Still the feeling was short lived – the man kneeling on the ground seemed on the verge of tears, biting his lips furiously, and the squires around him were kicking him and laughing mockingly in a display of violence that was almost as bad as what Lyanna’s mind had conjured.

“How _dare_ you,” she heard herself say, with a barely-controlled rage that was so much stronger than the petty anger she was used to conjure for her own selfish reasons. “That’s _my father’s man_ you’re kicking, you _savages_.”

And after that she just _charged_ – like she’d seen Brandon do hundreds of times, like she’d practiced with Benjen but never with such animal _fury_ , because she wanted to _hurt_ them and make them _cry_ like pathetic little children.

Lyanna _swung_ and she _hit_ and she _screamed_ , in what must have been a scary enough display to make all the three squires run away like a frightened herd, still nowhere as physically hurt as Lyanna would have liked. She stood still watching the boy disappear, eyes narrowed, taking notice of the heraldries sewn into their clothes, and once they were far enough she turned towards the man –the _crannogman_ – on the ground, still shaking as Benjen helped him back on his feet.

“Are you really our father’s man?” Benjen asked, staring at him intensely. “You look…”

“ _Of course_ he is, Ben,” Lyanna cut it. “Can’t you see? He’s a _crannogman_. From the Neck.” She looked the little man intensely, from head to toe. There were cuts on his face and body, but it was hard to see if he was seriously wounded under his moss-green tunic.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. The crannogman was still trembling, face pale, and there was no way of saying if it was some lingering shock or a violent blow that made him so. “Would you like to come with us? We can find you a healer, and a place to stay.”

“I’d appreciate that very much,” the crannogman answered, in a voice that was pleasant and deep, but still almost too strangely soft to belong to a man. “My name is Howland,” he added. “Of House Reed.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Benjen said, blinking, and Lyanna realized they’d forgotten to introduce themselves. “My name is Benjen Stark,” he told the crannogman – _Howland_. “And this is my sister Lya.”

“Thank you for your help, Lady Lya,” Howland said, and his smile was bright and sincere, if still pained. “I wasn’t expecting…” he trailed off.

 _Lady Lya_. Lyanna decided she liked that. “They were _monsters_ ,” she said, emphatically. “That’s not how squires ought to act. I only wish I’d hit them harder.”

“And you said you didn’t need a practice sword, Lyanna,” Benjen snickered and, _alright_ , this once he was right. Perhaps she should thank master Mott.

“Help me with him,” she told Ben instead, looping one of the crannogman’s arms around Benjen’s shoulders as she went to retrieve the odd spear and torn net. Howland protested he didn’t need any help, stubborn like a mule – or a man – and Lyanna just glared at him, scoffing.

“You look like you’re about to kneel over,” she said; and that was that.

By the time they finally, _finally_ , were back in Lord Rickard’s pavilion Ned was there, pacing back and forth with his usual dramatic flair.

“Where _were_ you?” He immediately started, scolding Lyanna much like she expected a septa would do. “Honestly, Lya, this is not Winterfell – you cannot just disappear like this, and drag Benjen with you, and _who is that_?”

Lyanna had to laugh at that. Ned hadn’t even stopped for breath, the mother hen, and now was looking at the wounded crannogman with a look of supreme surprise on his face.

“This is Lord Howland Reed,” Lyanna told Ned, “of Greywater Watch. He’s had an… unfortunate encounter with some Riverlander squires. We were thinking of calling a healer to assist him.”

“Yes,” Ned said, all his sternness forgotten; and Lyanna smiled to herself. He was such a soft heart, her brother. “You do that. Ben, let me help you get Lord Howland settled.”

The crannogman was looking much worse now, way past the point of standing by himself, and Lyanna felt a new fit of anger looking at him. She turned and made to leave, when Ned stopped her.

“Take Lord Robert with you,” Lyanna said, and suddenly there he was – Robert Baratheon, appearing from the shadows as if conjured from a spell. _Or maybe he smelled tits_ , Lyanna thought to herself, uncharitably, and immediately felt the smallest twinge of shame at Robert’s genuine smile.

“As your escort,” Ned added, and Lyanna gave him the dirtiest look she could muster, because Ned had been fostered in the _South_ , gods, one would expect him to be a tad more _subtle_.

Robert gave her another good-natured smile as they walked to fetch a healer – and that was quite enough walking for one morning, Lyanna decided; after this she would retire in her tent for the rest of the day – and Lyanna couldn’t help but sneak a look in his direction every once in a while.

Robert _was_ handsome, there was no denying it. Robert was so handsome, in fact, that Lyanna decided his handsomeness must be remarked upon no less than three times, at the very least. His eyes were a deep cornflower blue, his face open and earnest, and his body looked like something the Warrior might covet.

“Lyanna?”

What a shame he had to go and _ruin_ everything by talking.

“Yes?” she asked. Good gods, she so _hoped_ she was not blushing.

“Will you dance with me tonight?” he asked. “At the feast?”

Lyanna blinked for a moment, wondering what he was talking about, until she remembered how Lysa and Catelyn had been going on and on about the welcoming feast their Lord Uncle would have for the king and his whole court, talking about all the lord and ladies and what gowns they would wear.

Lyanna and her family would attend, of course, and that also meant dancing with Robert, as it was only proper. She wondered why he’d bothered asking in the first place.

“I’m not much for dancing,” she said instead, just to see how he would react, and Robert frowned.

“Ned said you like it.”

“I do,” Lyanna said, quickly. “But I’m not as well schooled in the art of Southron dancing as the ladies of the court, I’m afraid.” _There_. That was true and proper and courteous enough to give her an excuse to get out of dancing with Robert in case she needed.

Not that she minded the idea _that_ much. For now.

“Nonsense,” Robert said. “You’ll be amazing. And I could teach you, if you want.”

Lyanna found herself smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

Robert was irreprehensible the entire way, every bit as charming as his reputation suggested, entertaining Lyanna with stories of his and Ned’s adventures in the Vale that let her breathless and red-faced from laughing. He was the one offering to pay the healer once she was done, even after both Ned and Lyanna insisted he needn’t bother, and kissed Lyanna’s hand when biding her goodbye.  
  
Ned looked so stupidly happy about the whole thing, to the point that Lyanna decided to act terribly sullen to avoid giving him the satisfaction to gloat. Not that Ned was the kind of man to gloat, of course; but still.

“You should come to the castle with us,” Lyanna told Howland, after he’d been looked after and his wounds properly bandaged. “You cannot let those _bastards_ ruin your day.”

“ _Lyanna_ ,” Ned reprimanded her, almost a reflex now more than anything, and Benjen giggled.

“You should be there,” she continued, resolutely ignoring Ned’s exasperated looks. “You are highborn, after all. You can meet my Lord Father, he’s gone to pay his respect to the King and talk with Lord Hoster now, but he promised he would be back by this evening.”

“And my brother Brandon,” Lyanna added, frowning. “ _Wherever_ he is.”

“Brandon went to the castle,” Ned informed her. “To arrange with Lady Catelyn for this evening.”

“ _Really_?” Lyanna couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice. It was more likely that Brandon was arranging something with Princess Elia’s ladies – her brother wasn’t the type to spend hours exchanging pleasantries with Lady Catelyn for hours in a room with a chaperone.

Why anyone would spend hours with Catelyn _at all_ was beyond Lyanna’s understanding. She still couldn’t form an opinion on the other girl, always so proper and demure, who hadn’t reacted well to her bawdy joke about Brandon but had still made an effort to befriend Lyanna during the rest of the journey. A _visible_ effort at that, which coming from someone like Catelyn Tully meant that she’d wanted Lyanna to see _exactly_ how much of an effort it was to get along with her betrothed’s beloved, unruly younger sister for appearances’ sake.

“I want to come, too,” Benjen said, distracting Lyanna from her brooding. She brought one hand to muss up his hair, to Benjen’s supreme annoyance.

“Of course you can come, little brother,” she said, and Benjen blushed.

“ _Younger_ brother,” Ben clarified, looking embarrassed in Howland’s direction. “I’m her _younger_ brother. By only two years.”

Lyanna’s followed Benjen’s gaze to the crannogman, frowning. Howland looked much better than he had earlier, but she could still see the scraps and cuts on his face and arms, not to mention the numerous ones under his clothes and the bruised, bandaged ribs where the boys had kicked him.

“You should do something,” she said, suddenly.

“We are at a tourney,” Lyanna continued, in answer to Howland’s inquisitive look. “The biggest tourney in all the land. Ned could lend you a horse, and some armor, and you could challenge those boys…”

Howland’s face fell. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, my lady,” he said. “We are not trained in jousting in the Neck. I’d only maker a bigger fool of myself than I already did.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Ned burst in, to Lyanna’s surprise. Ned, who was rarely passionate about anything, seemed almost enraged at Howland’s words. “You have no fault in this. These squires are the disgrace to their name and Houses, not you.”

They really were, Lyanna decided in the embarrassed silence that followed, Ned’s face slowly turning red as he realized his outburst. She found herself looking at Ben, saw him look right back at her. _Someone should do something_ , she thought. _A real knight._

The evening came quietly, suddenly; and before Lyanna knew it she found herself in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, twice as big as the Great Hall in Winterfell and full to burst in the grandest display of careless wealth she had ever seen.

Every single knight and lady in the whole camp had been invited, or so Lyanna had been told, and even some of the merchants and men-at-arms of some of the lords were allowed into the feast – all the best, Lyanna suspected, to make the hall look like a grand display instead of the cavernous monstrosity it must usually be.

She had been sat next to Lysa, after an inconspicuous switch with her brothers and some Whent cousins of Lord Hoster, and she much appreciated the opportunity of having someone to talk with during the endless wait before the king arrival. Catelyn had joined in as well, and they’d gotten along well enough until King Aerys had walked in and the entire hall had gone silent.

The only sound in the room was the rustle of fabric and the scrapping of wood against stone as everyone stood up to greet Aerys, who walked in alone but for two of his Kingsguard in a cloud of scarlet silk and silvery-white hair, looking like some creature out of a dream.

“He doesn’t look mad,” Lysa whispered into Lyanna’s ear, after everyone was seated and the conversation stirred again. Lyanna shivered at the younger girl’s words, looking quickly around her as if to reassure herself nobody else had heard.

“We shouldn’t talk about these things in here,” Catelyn said; and, for once, Lyanna couldn’t bring herself to disagree.

After the king came Prince Rhaegar, escorting his Dornish princess on his arm, among the excited whispers of every woman in the room. Lyanna found herself looking at him – as it was only natural, she told to herself, just out of curiosity – and she found him every bit as handsome as expected, almost femininely beautiful with his delicate features and long silver hair.

“He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” Lysa said, following Lyanna’s eyes. This time, if Catelyn had heard, she didn’t disagree.

“He looks like a girl,” Lyanna snapped, piqued at having been caught staring. “Why is your father looking like he just ate a lemon?” she asked suddenly, hoping set Lysa on another course.

She resolutely did not look as Catelyn Tully’s lips thinned at her lack of respect.

“He’s looking at Jaime Lannister,” Lysa explained, pointing towards one of the other young lords sitting at the High Table; and Lyanna wondered how she’d missed him for so long, because Jaime Lannister was _beautiful_ – golden where Rhaegar was silver and a boy instead of a man, but beautiful all the same.

“Father wanted to marry me to him,” Lysa said, with just the barest amount of regret. For all that she was moonstruck with her mysterious Petyr, the girl did have _eyes_. “And now rumor has it he will join the Kingsguard. That is why Lord Tywin went back to Casterly Rock, or so everyone is saying. He was the Hand for years, and now King Aerys is taking his heir.”

Lyanna looked at Jaime Lannister again, so young and achingly handsome, ready to give his life away for a white cloak. There was honor in the Kingsguard, sure, and more glamour to be found among the White Swords than in the Night’s Watch, but it still sounded like a terrible decision to her.

“That’s…” Lyanna began, then stopped. How did these Southron ladies put it? She couldn’t say, _stupid_. “That’s very chivalrous,” Lyanna said, and Lysa gave a laugh that was almost a snort.

“Don’t you mean stupid?” she said, and yes, Lysa was truly wonderful. “But don’t worry,” she added, in a whisper. “It’s not Jaime Lannister I want to marry.”

The food was brought in shortly after, mouth-watering and tastefully arranged and enough to feed an army; and it was not long after _that_ that the music started, low at first and the loud enough to drown the sea of whispered conversation from one side of the hall to the other.

Lysa giggled madly when Robert came around to ask Lyanna for his dance, immediately after the first one led by the Crown Prince and his wife.

“I suppose I must agree, don’t I?” Lyanna made a show of telling Robert, and he nodded.

“Indeed, my lady,” he said seriously, “you must.”

Southron dancing, Lyanna found out, was no different from the dances she’d learnt in Winterfell, but if Robert took some form of pleasure in pretending she needed to be taught then Lyanna saw no reason not to let him do as he pleased – she had never be one for deflecting attention away from her. They danced twice before Ned came to cut in, looking altogether too pleased at the development.

“Shut up,” Lyanna warned him, before he could even speak. “Don’t say a thing.”

“I wasn’t,” Ned assured her, still smiling. “I was going to tell you that you look beautiful, Lya.”

Sometimes did that, say something so unexpectedly _sweet_ that made Lyanna’s heart jump in her throat and reminded her that she did not appreciated Ned nearly as much as she should. “Why, Eddard Stark,” Lyanna said instead. “You _charmer_. Has any lady in here caught your eye yet?”

Ned quickly looked away at that, to Lyanna’s great delight, then proceeded to redirect the conversation to the tournament lists or something equally as boring. “You should ask your lady to dance,” she told him once they were done. “Come on, Ned. I’m sure she will say yes.”

After Ned she went back to her seat, waiting for a red-faced, bright-eyed Lysa to come back from her turn with a tall, blonde lordling from the Vale Lyanna had never seen before. “Neither did I,” Lysa admitted, breathless. “But it’s fun.”

From her seat Lyanna watched as Brandon went to Ser Arthur Dayne’s sister Ashara and asked her to dance, noticing the way Ned’s eyes were following the both of them. It was not unusual of Brandon to go after a girl, even one his brother was interested in, but _here_ in front of Catelyn’s _family_ …

But none of the Tully seemed to take notice, Lyanna realized. Lord Hoster was dancing with Catelyn, and Lysa’s eyes were fixed to the back of the room, where one man in red-and-black lively was carrying something with both hands, moving quickly towards the high table.

“What are you looking?” Lyanna asked.

“That’s Prince Rhaegar’s harp,” Lysa said, as if it were obvious. “I heard from Uncle Oswell that Ser Arthur talked the Prince into playing for us tonight.” Lysa made sure to emphasize how her uncle was a Kingsguard, of course, the way she always did; but that wasn’t the part that caught Lyanna’s attention.

“Prince Rhaegar plays the harp?” She couldn’t imagine a renewed warrior doing such a thing – none of her brother, or her father, and certainly not Robert.

“Of course he does, silly,” Lysa told Lyanna. “How _can_ you not know, truly, it’s the first thing everyone say when they talk about the prince.”

Lyanna just shrugged. “Well, in the North they don’t,” she said. “It’s a womanly thing, anyways. I _did_ tell you he looks like a girl.”

“Who looks like a girl?”

It was Robert again, cheeks flushed and smiling, and Lyanna could smell the sweetness of summerwine in his breath.

“No one,” she said, holding out a hand. “Let’s dance again.”

They were well into their third dance of the evening when Lyanna noticed that Robert’s eyes were fixed on Lysa, staring intently. Lyanna’s own eyes narrowed in irritation – not that she _cared_ whom Robert looked at; she didn’t even like him in the first place, but he should at least have the good grace not to stare at other women in front of _her_ –

“And what has Lady Lysa done to you, Robert?” Lyanna asked, with a lightness she desperately wanted to feel; and Robert flinched.

“Beg your pardon?” he asked, frowning.

“The Lady Lysa Tully,” Lyanna explained. “You’re staring at her.”

Robert’s eyes widened in surprise, then his face broke into a big smile. “Are you jealous, Lyanna?” he sounded delighted.

Lyanna snorted, unladylike as it was. “You wish I was,” she said.

“But would I have _something_ to be jealous of?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Robert assured her, earnestly. “I was just thinking…” he began, then trailed off.

“It seems you have made friends with the wrong sister, my lady,” Robert said, lightly. “That’s all.”

“Have I?” It didn’t sound like Robert to be concerned about whom Lyanna befriended. “Has Ned told you that?”

Robert had the good grace to look away. “Well,” he began. “He said you should make more of an effort with the woman who is going to be your sister. He said perhaps you might be jealous of losing Brandon.”

“That’s _horseshit_ ,” Lyanna said, and Robert _laughed_ as she’d known he would, blue eyes shimmering with amusement instead of scandalized horror. But she was not jealous. Not of whichever tart caught Robert’s eyes – and the gods only knew there must have been many – and absolutely not of Catelyn Bloody Tully.

“I _have_ made an effort,” Lyanna added – too harshly, perhaps, but Ned wasn’t there for her to argue with. “Lady Catelyn…” was boring. Seemed to think Lyanna a bad influence towards her oh-so-pure younger sister. Didn’t even _like_ Lyanna, which made every overture of friendship look suspiciously as though she were trying to win Brandon’s attention through his sister. “Lady Catelyn took offense at something I said.”

There. That sounded like a perfectly worded ladylike reason, and was also the truth. Catelyn _really_ hadn’t liked Lyanna’s remark about what Brandon might want from her, never mind that Robert and Brandon himself had said similar things, and using far cruder euphemisms.

“That might be,” Robert nodded. “She looks like the type. But you must admit, my lady, you _are_ jealous.”

And so perhaps she was, Lyanna thought, annoyed. And exactly _who_ was Robert Baratheon to call her out on being jealous of Brandon, Robert who wanted nothing more than marry her to become Ned’s brother in more than words?

Robert, with his bastard child in the Vale.

“I suppose I am, my lord.” Lyanna told him, smiling sweetly. Once Benjen had said her sweeter smile could make a man shiver down deep in his bones. “I never really liked to share.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**– the mystery knight, part three –**

* * *

 

_you can fall for pretty strangers  
and the promises they hold_

* * *

 

That night in Harrenhall, Lyanna Stark felt herself become a woman.

It was a gentle shift, one that had nothing to do with the state of her body, or that of her marriage. It was a simple affair, a door opening where before a solid wall had been, letting her see a glimpse of a life that might be hers, if she so wished.

That night, Lyanna told herself there was no harm in trying. _Just for a little while_.

If she’d had to choose a catalyst – a turning moment, some place or time to point a finger at so that she could say, _this is where I changed_ – Lyanna would have named Rhaegar Targaryen, with his violet eyes and deep voice and long harpist fingers. The entire night had a sort of magical feel to it, the dancing and fine food and sweet wine, and it seemed such an easy way to live, so much easier than the reckless, wild Lyanna Stark with her dreams and roses and hair tightly braided away from her face.

She’d meant to play a part and see how it would fit, and fawning over the Crown Prince seemed like a good enough way to go about it. He was beautiful to look at, almost too much to be real, and every bit as charming as his reputation suggested. Robert merely rolled his eyes when Lyanna suggested they go back to their seats, and told Lyanna he had heard Rhaegar play already and _truly_ , there was nothing special about it.

“A pretty harp won’t make him any less of a bore,” Robert said; but there was a sort of delight to it, to play court lady here under the spell of Southron charms and Spring flowers. Lyanna was almost fifteen, a maid in her prime, and she would be married soon whether she agreed with it or not. She was going to experience _everything_ , Lyanna told herself that night; and if that included swooning and laughing and fancying herself in love with a prince like everyone else was doing; then she would.

 _Just to try it_ , she told herself. _Nothing more._

Rhaegar sang of doomed lovers and long-dead kings with such passion and earnestness, as if he meant every word, and Lyanna looked around her – the great, cavernous hall and the splendor of the king’s court, her brothers laughing together and the flavor of cinnamon and summerwine – Lyanna looked around and then closed her eyes, bashing in the sweet sound of the music and the sheer perfection of that single instant; and she thought, _there will never be another moment as this one_.

It was a strange thought, and sad, and somehow oddly sobering; and beautiful most of all.

“Were you _crying_?” Benjen asked her later that night, sounding incredulous and incredibly amused.

“Don’t be silly,” Lyanna said, glaring at him. “I was not.”

“ _Yes you were_ ,” he drawled, delighted, savoring every word. “I can’t believe it. She was crying, wasn’t she, Howland?”

It was just the three of them – Lyanna and Ben and Howland. Father had disappeared with Lord Hoster again, and the less she thought about what Brandon and Ned might be doing, the better.

Lyanna glowered. “Don’t answer that,” she told the crannogman. “I wasn’t _crying_.”

“Yes you _were_ ,” Benjen said again. “Lya, I _saw_ you. Just you wait until I can tell Brandon.”

Lyanna snorted, a most unladylike sound, and amazingly liberating. “Well, good luck with _that_ ,” she said. Brandon hadn’t been around to see her cry – or _not_ cry, as might have been the case. He’d disappeared halfway through the dances, as she’d known he would; but the real novelty about it was that he’d somehow managed to whisk Ned away as well.

Robert had remained, to Lyanna’s surprise, staying well in her sight until the moment they had to leave. Honestly, she didn’t quite know what to make about that.

“I still can’t believe it,” Benjen continued, dreamingly. “You were crying. Over a lovers’ story. You.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes, and her gaze fell on a pitcher of wine left over from when that healer had cleaned Howland’s wounds. _That would do_ , she decided, moving closer to pour herself a cup.

Benjen followed her, the little nuisance. “More wine?” he asked. “Can I have some, Lya? Ned wouldn’t let me –”

“Absolutely,” Lyanna said, nodding solemnly.

Then she spilled the cup over his head.

“There, have some wine,” she said, over the sound of Benjen’s incredulous stutters and Howland’s surprised laugh. “I’m going to sleep.”

That night she did not dream of violent eyes and splendid dances and sad melodies; and when the sun rose, cold and bright, Lyanna already knew what she would do.

“Do you remember what we were talking about yesterday?” she asked Benjen first thing in the morning, when the air was cold and the grass wet with dew. Benjen shook his head slowly, eyes heavy with sleep. Everyone else was still deep asleep or, Lyanna suspected in Brandon’s case, not in their beds at all.

“Yesterday. During the feast?” Lyanna asked again. “Ben, you didn’t drink _that_ much.”

“And still I ended up reeking of wine,” her brother said, sounding put off. Lyanna leaned in closer – yes he did, she realized. His hair still smelled faintly, which it meant he must have made some attempts at washing it off.

“I cannot _believe_ you are still grumpy about _that_ ,” Lyanna said, as if it’d happened weeks ago and not mere hours earlier. It usually worked, with Ben. He was almost as sweet as Ned.

“What is this thing I should remember?” Benjen asked, eventually; and Lyanna smiled.

“You know,” she began, vaguely. “About Howland.”

Benjen sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “Lya,” he said. “Lya, _no_.”

“What?” Lyanna asked, defiantly. “You don’t think I can do it?”

She _could_ do it; she was sure she could. Lyanna was a finer rider than even Brandon, knew her way around a jousting lance, and surely had the strength required to knock some perfumed Southron knights out of their saddles. _If anyone deserves it_ , she thought, _it’s those three_. But she couldn’t do it without help.

“I know you can do it,” Benjen said, and that was nice to hear. “I just don’t think you _should_ it.

“Yes, thank you, Eddard,” Lyanna told him. “But will you help me?”

“Please?”

Benjen closed his eyes, and Lyanna knew she’d won. “If someone finds out –”

“No one will,” she assured him. “I swear.”

That morning they went around the camp again, this time with a destination in mind. Benjen was the one to find the pieces of armor, taken from some part of the Northern camp or the other, drawing far less attention than Lyanna would have in his place; and as for her part, Lyanna wandered around the south quarter among the men and women from Essos, to find someone who would paint her shield and forget her face afterwards.

Luckily, there were not many people around. It was the first day of the tourney after all; and even if the jousting was guaranteed to be mediocre, the lists filled as they were with squires and green lordlings and older knights past their prime, the opportunity to see King Aerys raise Ser Jaime Lannister to his Kingsguard was more than enough for the crowds. Lyanna spent the entire afternoon on the saddle instead, taking care in picking a horse she’d never ridden before, least Father recognized her, but still agile and good-natured. By the end of the day she was dead on her feet; and the day after that was without a doubt the best of her life.

She had been was scared, of course, of losing and being discovered, of humiliation and Father’s disapproval; but she was a Stark of Winterfell, and brave as a wolf. Lyanna made her way onto the tourney grounds with her hands firm and head high, and in that moment she knew she would win.

The knights went down rather easily in the end, half-trained and nowhere as capable as she was on a saddle, and Lyanna’s voice did not tremble once when she had to speak. _Teach your squires respect_ , she said, keeping her tone as grave as she could, speaking through her helm with a voice that was nothing like her real one. She was gone right after that, heart beating madly in the sweet aftermath of victory, a delighted smile under the helm.

Benjen came to her right after the joust, amazement in his eyes, and hugged her tight.

“I can’t believe you _did_ it,” he said, every bit as euphoric as Lyanna herself felt, and she smiled wide at him.

“I do keep saying Father not to underestimate me, do I?” But she was grinning like a fool and so was him, blood still pumping so fast she could hear the rush in her ears.

“It was beautiful,” she told Benjen. “It was the best moment of my life.”

They were all talking about the mysterious knight that night, young Dom Bolton and Garth Hightower and his brother Baelor. Brandon winked at her – because _of course_ he would, even if Lyanna knew he would never say a word about it – and pointed her to the corner where Robert was busy declaring to whoever would listen to him that he would unmask the knight first thing the next morning. _Good luck with that_ , she thought, laughing to herself; and not even hearing all about how King Aerys’s supposed folly had risen again that morning was enough to curb her good spirits.

That night, Lyanna Stark slept the rewarding sleep of the just; or she would have, had she not been too excited to simply lay down.

She went out for a walk instead, away from the tents and pavilions and from the shadow of the castle. She did that often back in Winterfell, sneaking off as she often did, no matter that Father always told her how dangerous it was, and he always laughed whenever she showed him the knife she carried. He probably did not believe she would ever use it, and Lyanna never told him of the young knight from the Crownlands she had stabbed once, when she’d been twelve and he very drunk at a feast in Barrowton. _To each their secrets, Lya_ , Brandon had told her when she’d come knocking at his door in the middle of the night, wide-eyed and scared, only to find him abed with a woman who was certainly not Lady Barbrey.

“What are you doing wandering alone at night dark, Lady Lyanna?”

She startled at that, one had to her belt, turning towards the amused voice.

“Your Grace,” she said, surprised; because of course it would be Prince Rhaegar. It was a very princeling thing to do, she told herself, walking alone at night, quite romantic – it went nicely with the soft singing voice and charming manners and soulful gaze.

Lyanna curtsied, putting all of her efforts into it, and feeling quite satisfied with the result. _Catelyn couldn’t do better_ , she thought, and it was only once she was done that she notice how close the prince was, and how good he looked under the light of the moon.

 _Even better than Robert_ , she supposed, and felt herself flush when she saw him smile. She hadn’t said it out loud, had she? No, she hadn’t, she was sure. It must have been something else.

“There’s no need for that, my lady,” Rhaegar said, sounding more charming than Robert would have, smoother even than Brandon. “We are not in court, after all.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” Lyanna said. “In that case, I’m taking a walk.”

The prince’s smile turned surprised at that, and Lyanna wondered if he’d still been expecting obsequious courtesies even after he’d asked her to dispense with pleasantries. Nevertheless he didn’t look offended, and Lyanna felt bold enough to voice her own question.

“What about you, my prince?” Lyanna asked, trying her best to keep her curiosity out of her voice, as if it was just a perfectly normal topic of discussion.

“The same thing, I’d say,” he answered after a while. “I find it more restful than sleep.”

 _Of course you would_ , Lyanna found herself thinking, with an harshness that surprised her. She remembered Lysa’s mindless chatters at the feast on that first night, her shocked whispers as she’d told repeated Lyanna all about how she’d heard Lady Malya Chyttering tell Catelyn of Princess Elia’s rumored pregnancy, how dangerous and difficult it would be. _It’s killing her, poor thing_ , Lysa had said, blue eyes clear and wide as she delivered the news. Both Lysa and Catelyn had served at court as young girls, and were acquainted with the Dornish Princess. Lyanna herself had never even spoken to Elia Martell and could not bring herself to mind as much as Lysa obviously did; but the words were coming back to her now.

 _Will Robert do the same?_ She could see her future stretching clearly in front of her, a lifetime of being left alone and forgotten whenever she was distressed, or with child, or sick… _And Prince Rhaegar only went to take a walk_ , she thought. _Robert would probably be bedding some whore_.

“Lady Lyanna?” Rhaegar’s voice brought her back to reality. “Are you well?”

She took in a breath and blinked, willing herself to stay composed. “Yes,” she said. _Stay calm_ , she told herself, because she was a Stark of the North, and brave. “Yes. I was…”

“I think I’m tired,” Lyanna blurted out in the end, and saw him nod.

“Of course,” he said, but it was plain that he did not believe her. He moved in closer, as if worried that she might fall to the ground from one moment to another. _I am not your delicate Dornish wife, my lord_. Lyanna didn’t need to be _crowded_ ; suddenly, she felt herself choke.

“Allow me to escort back to your tent,” the prince offered then, once again the perfect knight.

Lyanna laughed at that, feeling like herself once again. “Why, my prince,” she said. “That would be hardly proper, wouldn’t it be?”

And he laughed as well, a silver statue under the light of the moon, and _gods_ _he’s beautiful_.

It suddenly occurred to Lyanna how close they were standing to each other, alone but for the trees and the grass and each other, and her eyes trailed on his smiling lips. It was almost like a secret tryst, like the kind Brandon had told her about, like one of _these_ song, the one that had _not_ made her cry; and she could hear the chants rising from the fires back in the camp, feel the gentleness of spring in the air, and she loved it all.

And Lyanna knew, with all the confidence of her fourteen years, that she would never forget this night for as long as she lived; and she never did.

Lyanna bid the Prince goodnight and went back to her own bed thinking, _so_ this _is what all the fuss about the South is about_. She had thought she’d learned it already on her first day in Harrenhall, and again at the feast and on the tourney grounds; but earlier she had just been playing a part – the wide-eyed Northern girl and the merry lady and the mystery knight; and tonight she’d only been Lyanna, sneaking away in the dark and finding herself in a song.

She could perfectly understand it, then, Ashara Dayne and Baelor Hightower and all the young lord and ladies of the court, how they’d danced and laughed and flirted as the music played. She’d been playing along but now everything was _clear_ – there was a sort of splendor, Lyanna decided, so different from the grandness of the North and every bit as beautiful in its way.

 _Damned Ned for never telling me about it_ , Lyanna thought, before realizing that Ned was _Ned_ and most likely hadn’t even noticed. He was never one for poetry, her brother. Lyanna thought she could understand Robert better now, his love of living life to the fullest; how his freedom meant she’d never have hers.

Her last thought, before falling asleep that night, was of how unlucky Lysa must be, locked away in her cold stone room in that looming fortress rather than among the beauties of the city of tents.

Benjen came to wake her early the next morning, with the news that King Aerys had ordered the mystery Knight of the Laughing Tree to be brought before him.

“We should probably get rid of the pieces of armor,” her bother told her, and Lyanna hated the thought of missing yet another morning of jousting. Of the two full days she’d only seen one afternoon, dizzy with triumph and squirming in her seat as the king grew more and more impatient when the Mystery Knight did not return for another bout in the lists.

“You should go,” she said to Benjen. “Father will be asking after me and so will Robert, for sure.” Her betrothed much preferred the melee to jousting, and he’d been unhorsed on the second day. No doubt that he’d want Lyanna to sit next to him.

“Tell them… it’s a womanly thing,” she concluded. Benjen’s answering grin was half-amused and half-scandalized, and she knew Robert would never dare ask more.

It was tedious more than hard, walking around, misplacing each one of the mismatched pieces of armor in turns. She’d worn a pair of Benjen’s breeches, of course, and tied her hair up in the simple knot a serving girl might wear, but there was no one around to take notice of her even if she hadn’t bothered. She would keep the helm, of course, it fitted her just right and it would not be easy to find another one. As for the shield…

“Lady Lyanna?”

 _Seven hells_.

She flinched in surprise at having being caught unaware, and raised her head slowly. Sure enough it was Prince Rhaegar again, clad in his black armor, standing right in front of her. _Two times in two days_ , she thought, and might have been amused at the coincidence had it been under different circumstances. As things were though, it was a terrible annoyance.

“My Prince,” Lyanna answered, as calmly and politely as she could. She did not bother curtsying; it would be pointless and, she thought, with a glance at the trousers she was wearing, _will look utterly silly_. Not that she cared much, not really.

“May I ask how you recognized me?” Lyanna asked, remembering Brandon’s words. _Attack is the best defense_ , he was fond of saying, in life like as on the battlefield, and he never stood accused when he could ask question as a distraction instead.

She studied him as she spoke, noticing the calmness in his face. Rhaegar did not look half as angry as Benjen had told her the king had been that morning, and he’d called her name in interest more than accusation. It was almost encouraging; but Lyanna knew the prince’s own opinion would not make much of a difference to Aerys.

Robert might perhaps find it amusing, but the rest of the court would think it outraging, and Father…. He would be livid, Lyanna knew it, for her having attracted the king’s displeasure more than anything, and he would probably have her married in a moon’s time to get rid of the problem altogether. _Or perhaps he’ll have me stay at Riverrun with Catelyn Tully and Lord Hoster until the wedding_ , she thought, and could not decide which one would be worse.

“Well,” Rhaegar said, and she could see that he was amused. “You don’t look that much different out of a dress, my lady.”

 _Oh_. That was a disappointment; she’d always counted on a change of clothes to disappear. Lyanna might not look much different, but many people did not seem to recognize her like this – she’d passed right next to Jon Umber once dressed in a stableboy’s clothes, and he hadn’t even blinked. It was just her luck that Rhaegar Targaryen would be the only man observant enough to take notice.

Lyanna tried not to let her disappointment show and the prince went on, rather cheerfully. “That is a pretty shield you have,” he said, pointing at her hand, and Lyanna felt herself flush. Did he really need to mock her, on top of everything?

“I wondered why no one realized it might have been you,” Rhaegar continued. “From the tree. And you were missing yesterday morning.”

 _Because a woman is always everyone’s first guess for a mystery knight_ , Lyanna wanted to say; but that would have been as good as an admission of guilt. She bit her tongue. “Is there any way you could believe it is not mine?”

Rhaegar laughed. “I am not particularly close to cousin Robert, but he has been talking so much of his fiery northern bride that it wasn’t much difficult to guess.” He paused. “I told my father’s men to their mystery knight is likely on the Kingsroad. They must be halfway to Darry now.”

“I am not his bride _yet_ ,” Lyanna began, and the realized what he’d just said. _Has he really …_ “Thank you,” she told him, relieved. “I doubt I would have survived Ned’s lecture if he found out.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, as if he’d just offered to escort her to a ball. “I suppose you had you reason and, truth be told, it was very enjoyable to watch. How was it to you?”

“I loved it,” she confessed. “I only wished I could do it again.”

But she knew she could not. After today, the king had all but ensured that every noble in the Seven Kingdoms would see the Knight of the Laughing tree as an enemy. _But all I did was joust._

“The king didn’t seem to find it so entertaining.” Lyanna began, inquisitively; but the words were barely out of her mouth that she immediately regretted them. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Yes, you did,” Rhaegar interrupted her, matter-of-factly, but he did not seem angry. “His Grace is… not well,” he said, sounding regretful. “You must excuse him.”

“Of course,” Lyanna started to say, but he spoke up once again.

“May have your shield?” he asked, and she blinked, surprised.

“What for?”

“I told you,” Rhaegar said, with a playfulness she hadn’t thought he could have. “It is very distinctive. I might find it somewhere by the lake, where the knight dropped it in his impatience to flee.” It made sense. Lyanna had almost counted on keeping it, as a keepsake, but if Father ever saw it – or gods forbid, _Ned_ …

“I promise on my honor I’ll keep it safe,” he continued, with exaggerate solemnity, and she had to smile at that. “I’ll take care of it as it were my lady’s favor.” At the feast, Robert had begged her for a favor to wear during the melee; Lyanna had told him she’d have to think about it. _Favors are for jousting, my lord,_ she’d said _, all the song say so. You’d better learn how to use a spear_.

“What,” Lyanna said, laughing. “Will you tie it to your lance at the tourney today?”

“I can see how it would make it difficult to ride,” Rhaegar admitted, his tone light; and Lyanna handed him the shield, only pausing slightly to brush one hand against the weirwood painted on it.

“Thank you,” she repeated.

“It truly was a pleasure,” he said; and she could almost believe he meant it. “Now,” he continued, “can I walk you back today?”

“That would be even _more_ inappropriate,” she said, dramatically, brining one hand to her chest. “The Crown Prince and a servant girl? What would the ladies _think_?”

“I’d take it as a yes,” Rhaegar started to walk. “You seem to love being inappropriate.”

“Quite,” she followed him. “It’s a northern vice of ours.”

“Ser Eddard is one of the least inappropriate men I have ever known.”

She let out a sniff at that, figuring it was too late to bother being polite in the prince’s presence. “You said it yourself,” Lyanna explained. “ _Ser_. He spent too long in the Vale, got himself knighted and everything. He is probably going to marry a southron woman next.” She thought of Ashara Dayne, her eyes so much like Prince Rhaegar’s, how witty and engaging she had been. It was a pity that Ned was such a shy maid; she would enjoy having Ashara as a good-sister.

“You are going to marry a southron as well, my lady,” he said, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

“I am aware,” she said, perhaps more coldly than she’d intended, but she could not help it. She was _tired_ of it, making polite conversation with Robert as he tried to win her heart knowing he would have her anyway. Tired of listening to Father making plans for the wedding, knowing that her next time back in Winterfell would be her last; and then _he_ arrived, the stupid prince, asking innocently as if _she_ didn’t know that she was to be married.

It was scarcely _Rhaegar_ ’s fault; but he was still the Crown Prince, who’d surely had more of say in his choice of bride than Lyanna. And even if he hadn’t, he was still a man, free of taking all the mistresses he wanted, to fight in tourneys and lead men and travel to Essos if he so wished; and Lyanna could not even walk by herself without needing to hide.

“I thank you,” Lyanna said, once again. “For keeping my secret, and for today; but I think you should go back to the king.”

He looked about to say something – _of course he does, he’s the_ Crown Prince _, and you just ordered him around like a servant’s son!_ – but she spoke up again before he could.

“Please,” she told him, quietly; and he nodded.

“Of course,” Rhaegar said. “The king must be getting impatient.”

He made it to leave then, but Lyanna found herself calling out to him. “Good luck,” she said; and he turned towards her. “For the tournament. I know you’ll win.”

And of course he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, man, I'm kind of not feeling this fandom at the moment so it may be a while before I come back to this story, but it is truly one of my favourite things I have ever written, and I'm super dedicated to it.  
> BTW: Feedback is love.  
> [ _tumblr_](http://www.qvcksilver.tumblr.com)


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